The Way It Will Be
by ShaNini86
Summary: The missing scene from Reid's grief assessment with Hotch. Spoilers for episode 6.20, 'Hanley Waters.'


**Hi everyone. So I wrote this story after episode 6.20, "Hanley Waters." I forgot about it, found it again, and decided to post it. The scene details the rest of Reid's grief assessment with Hotch, although the episode quotes probably aren't entirely correct...**

**Also, for those of your reading/following my story, "These Days," please know I'm still working on it, although it's been difficult to write. I do plan, however, on completing and publishing the remaining two chapters before the end of the summer.**

**Happy reading! :)**

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><p>"<em>He recognized no choice other than the choice to stand steady, eyes open, eyes gathering, heart rising like a free bird in his chest. It could come to him. The answer would surely come. He had only to wait and see how much of this destruction was his to share." - Alyson Hagy<em>

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><p>It's there in the beginning, from the very maddening start, from the end, and he knows he should have seen it sooner. The way the once-rambling always eager agent became a shell. He should have noticed at the arrival of dark bags and the return of skittering glances at an empty desk that once held remnants of a vibrant life. There were still some statistical tangents and moments of robotic-like precision, but they're silenced too quickly, too often, and he fights the urge to scream when the younger agent, the one who does not know what he does, admits that he's used to his own set of lies.<p>

But it makes sense, too much sense, that he would rely on social cues to respond in ways that will distract and divert others. It's an action that the young man has practiced and perfected, and Hotch does not feel that this is odd then or now as he offers an explanation that hangs heavily between the two men.

"You told them what they wanted to hear." There's a slight head nod, a downward glance, and then Reid doesn't lie.

"If we can't even keep each other safe, then what's the point of all of this?" Hotch has to catch his breath because he's only ever thought that after Hayley died, but it had taken him years of losing battles and half-fought wars to reach that conclusion. After Foyet, he always stopped this dangerous thought by padding down a darkened hallway to peer at a sleeping Jack. But Reid doesn't have children, or a spouse, significant other, or a stable family to support him. All he has, Hotch realized with a sinking feeling, is the team. A broken, grieving, splintering team.

"I'm starting to think Gideon was right and this isn't worth it."

And that statement, those words, the past, make his insides burn. He is concerned about all of them. Garcia's blatant denial had unnerved him, but Rossi's acceptance had set him back onto a path, although he had avoided the potholes that would have made his glaring act of treachery apparent. Morgan had thrown on the brakes, but he had been silently grateful that Derek had opened up, cracking slightly. Yet Reid had veered them both, them all, over a sharp cliff. He knew it would come down to Morgan and Reid in some epic, losing battle over who's mental state would cause him more sleepless nights.

But he hates that Reid is winning by a long shot.

"What's not worth it, Reid?" The answer is one he doesn't want to hear, but he sits back, waits patiently, and watches as Reid's face crumbles and smooths, fighting with some thought that he cannot fathom. This can go one of two ways, and he's not sure which direction is the worst one.

"I'm not sure anymore, Hotch." And, just like that, the thin boundary breaks and Reid is all tears, crying into his palms as if Hotch is not in the room. And it feels like he's not there too because this situation, this weird, warped, fucked up mess, is not real. It can't be because Emily really isn't dead. For a fleeting moment as Reid reaches for the tissues his hands are somehow offering, he wishes Emily really had died. Anything would be better than this grief his must watch unfold, but cannot fix, ease, or stop.

And, when he realizes the team must have felt the same about his own mourning when Hayley died, he lets out a soft sigh. Karma's a bitch, and it's his turn to hurt.

"Reid." He stops, shifts his weight, clears his throat, and reminds himself that oaths and matters of national security are not lies, even if it, if _this,_ feels like the worst kind of betrayal.

"I can't sleep, Hotch. I can't focus. My head hurts. And I'm tired, Hotch. I'm really fucking tired."

He tries to figure out what to say, how to make things right, but he knows he cannot tell the truth. As much as he lives for integrity and all the things he swore he'd uphold, he cannot place her in danger. If he does tell, he knows he cannot stand to see the fire in Reid's eyes. There are some betrayals that are too much, too painful, and Hotch doesn't know what he'd do without Reid in his life.

And the thing is, Reid is already on his way out.

"I know, Reid. I know." His voice is soft. It cracks, wavers, and Aaron Hotchner does the one thing he's never done in all these years. Through all the bouts of blackness and the warped, maddening controlled chaos, he's never reached out, not like this, but now his arms are expanding across the widening rift, grabbing the thin hand in his own.

Reid's fingers feel icy, but soft, and he squeezes, applies the slightest bit of pressure. It's a grasp that offers a thousand apologies in an extended moment of physical contact, of comfort, of support, and of desperation to help a man who has run out of options. Reid stares hard, blinks, and his walls completely crumble. He's sobbing, turning Hotch's fingertips a brilliant white and leaning forward to unfurl the knots of pain. The younger agent is breaking down, releasing the years, and falling apart, but, when his hands continue to cling onto his, the unit chief thinks they may make it through. Maybe they're not lost just yet.

"I don't know what to do anymore." Reid whispers, shoving saturated tissues at his eyes. His lips are quivering in tempo with his extremities, and he swallows past the truth that is hollowing to be released.

"I don't either, Reid." He meets his eye, nods, accepts the facts, and, just like that, they're back to being separate. They're alone in their grief, drowning in it, and he eases into his chair. Reid stares at the floor and he stares at Reid. The minutes rise and fall like ocean waves against the shore. His clock ticks. Reid's gaze travels to his degrees and awards falsely lining the walls. Then, Reid looks at him with eyes that are void, filled, and desperately searching for a sign, for anything, to make this situation right. Hotch blinks, but the world is still focused.

"I want to make her proud." He knows Reid's afraid that, after his colossal breakdown, he won't be allowed back on the team. Reid's right, as usual, but he won't make him leave. He won't keep any of them off, even though he should. Even though it would take a damn idiot to see that none of them are alright, okay, and none should be anywhere near a gun. Instead, Hotch bites his inner lip, does not wince at the sting, and meets the young man's swirling gaze.

"You already are."

"Does time help?" It's not an abnormal question to ask after a difficult time, but it is a rather stupid one for Reid. Yet, the younger agent is staring at him, patiently waiting for an answer he already knows, and Hotch swallows. His throat is suddenly dry. He's not really sure what Reid's referencing anymore. Maybe Emily, her "death," or the pain suffocating the young man who's already seen and experienced too much.

"If you let it." It's a loaded answer and he knows this just as much as Reid. They're quiet again. The heater trickles to life. In the distance, a car horn blares, but the sound is too far to be anything but dull and lifeless.

"Thanks, Hotch." He's not really sure if Reid means this or if this appreciation is just a professional formality, but he bobs his head.

There's a nod, a swinging of arms to retrieve the familiar bag, and they both stand. Reid is taller than he is, but he's never really noticed the height before. It feels monumentally oppressive. Hotch's hand reaches for the cool doorknob, turning it open to reveal a deserted BAU. One lone, faint light resounds outwards from Morgan's desk, bathing the darker agent in an eerie disembodied glow. Of course, he waited. Of course, he cares about Reid. Of course, he won't let Reid wander home on dark, deserted streets. When a feeling of relief bubbles inside, Hotch internally thanks Morgan for his constant protection. He stares at Reid, who is looking at Morgan as if he's only thing holding him upwards.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Hotch." He nods as his eyes follow Reid's long strides that slink towards the cluster of three cluttered desks and one abandoned one.

While Reid's back is still turned, Aaron Hotchner shuts his office door, leans against its wooden side, and releases all of his air. He didn't have to conduct these meetings, but it's his penance. He owes it to them, to her, and to himself because he couldn't protect her, Hayley, them, and he must live with his failures. He's always been a man above the rest, apart from them all, but now he feels marked. He's weaker than he thought, than he's ever been, and no one will ever know. From another world, he hears Morgan call Reid "Pretty Boy." There's some shuffling and the familiar elevator door ding. In a moment of clashing cables, both men are gone.

Then, it's quiet, dark, and there's a familiar feeling welling in his chest. He exhales again, grabs his things, and switches the light to off before leaving his office. He'll be the first one here tomorrow and the last one to leave, but it's a practicality he understands, if not perfected.

Tomorrow, he'll be the unflappable unit chief again. He'll meet the pleading, burning expressions with a hard, set one. From his perch on the catwalk, he'll watch everyone's heavy movements and their stumbling to the coffee pot, yet he does not and will not dare mingle anymore for fear of discovery. Tomorrow, he'll watch Reid's long fingers twirl a pen, encase a ceramic mug, or snake through his matted curls while he remembers how cool they felt as the tight grasp bore into his own.

Tomorrow, he will think of Hayley, Gideon, and Emily, and he'll swear that he has done what is needed and right. When the team leaves for lunch or they're called to a case, he'll decline offers to join and he will station himself a few seats over, and apart, from everyone on the jet. He will never be close, never available, but he'll never too unreachable. He'll never wander too far away again for fear of what could and will happen if he's gone. Tomorrow, he'll sit in his office, alone, and that will be the way it is, was, and the way it will have to be.


End file.
